


stained glass eyes and colorful tears

by koutaro



Category: Harry Styles - Fandom, Larry Stylinson - Fandom, Louis Tomlinson - Fandom, One Direction (Band), why aren't there fandoms for these
Genre: Alcohol Abuse, Anal Sex, M/M, Male Pregnancy, Mpreg, Pregnant Louis, Pregnant!louis, Self Harm, Self Loathing, Smut, Teen Pregnancy, all over the places, and brew him coffee and kiss him a lot, and he loves his tum and hips, and he loves to take care of louis, are these necessary????, birth scene, bottom!Louis, harry is a twenty one year old hipster bitch, harryandlouis, idk - Freeform, it's chaptered ye, larry smut, love making, ohhhhh yes, several trigger warnings, srry, there, there is a breakthrough tho, ummm - Freeform, you heard me right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 08:13:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1737608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koutaro/pseuds/koutaro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>louis just wanted to pay his gas money and harry wanted to take him home.</p>
<p>or </p>
<p>the one where louis thinks monopoly money makes him rich until he finds himself struggling to buy shit for a baby when he can't take care of himself until harry does</p>
            </blockquote>





	stained glass eyes and colorful tears

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first chapter yo  
> ummmmm  
> it WILL get better i swear pls bear with me  
> this story got a lot of it's inspiration from personal experiences  
> (no i have not been pregnant shut up)  
> as well as music--so much so from the music  
> and i love the idea so i'm going to carry this out  
> whether or not people read it k  
> soooo for those of you who do i hope you enjoy :)))  
> happy late mpreg month ayyyy  
> -riah xo

**i.**

“I pledge to never abuse the uses of alcohol and drugs inappropriately when I come of age,” The school children had all sang, because sure, then things weren’t so hard. Louis laughed at it now, he really did, because here he was, seventeen and he got drunk off his ass every Saturday.  
He liked to think that things could be different, but they weren’t. He liked to think that maybe he could seek to, perhaps a father or a mother when things were tough, but they were the ones that betrayed him and that was that. So then there was alcohol, and weed, and shit like that and you can’t tell a kid not to stay off the drinks and drugs if it’s the only thing that will satisfy his hungry needs, his empty soul.

At the moment he had a dwindling cigarette that dangled from his toxic lips; he’d consumed so much that night that you could probably get drunk off kissing him. Not that anyone would kiss him, anyway, but that was beside the point. It was forty degrees outside and his toxic lips were turning numb, fingers fiddling inside his pocket with the half empty lighter. He wondered if he flicked the dial he would flame up and be gone in seconds, maybe minutes, a pile of ash on the side of the road. He considered it, actually, but decided there were better ways to close business.

He stumbled out of his car—it had run out of gas a few minutes ago and sputtered pitifully to a stop on the side of the road. The truck was his mate’s and he’d make sure that his balls were cooked medium rare if he didn’t bring it back with a full tank, but that wasn’t a problem. He was filthy rich, anyway, and every time he stuffed his hands in his ass pockets he’d feel the comforting feel of paper. He was no narcissist, but he made sure people knew that he was fortunate, because they needed to fucking know.

Aside from that, Louis was pretty miserable. Rich and miserable.

He made his way to the trunk(it wasn’t easy when you were drunk and he found that the yellow lines on the asphalt mislead him rather than guide him like they were supposed to. He’d walked several oblong circles because he’d learned from Dorothy to, when in doubt follow the yellow brick road and maybe it would lead you to the trunk of your car), pulled it open and fished around for the gallon container to fill it up with gas.

His lungs were filled with smoke now and he stood up, slamming the trunk shut and allowed pillars of smoke to unfurl from his parted lips. With an obnoxious burp, he turned, and started to search for the nearest gas station.

There was a lot on his mind right now, yet there wasn’t. He tended to be an inbetweener when he was drunk, muddled thoughts and silent devotionals behind the bathroom door. He constantly thanked his father for the steady flow of liquor and vodka. Even if it wasn’t really meant for him.  
When he was fifteen, he discovered that if he drank all of the alcohol before his dad could, he would be sober a majority of the day and the punishments were a lighter load. His dad hit harder when he was drunk. Louis didn’t know when things fell apart. If you thought about it, there had to be some time—some hour, or minute, or second or day that everything came to a screeching halt without a warning and it all fell to bits and pieces on the bathroom floor. Droplets of red blood mixed with alcohol and tears, shattered glass, shredded photographs, halves, thirds, quarters, sixteenths of hearts. There had to be some point.

Louis threw his fag out and crushed it beneath the toe of his sneaker, watching the spark ignite, then fade at once. It reminded him of hope.

The gas station seemed to appear like a mirage in the desert; Louis would have kissed the ground, but it wasn’t the desert. He walked up to one of the pumps and clumsily screwed off the lid, the smell of dog shit and gasoline not mixing well with the vodka and dollar store orange juice. He swallowed to keep it down, filled his cheeks with air as he pressed a numb finger to his selection and shoved the nozzle in the bottles opening.

“Buttsex,” He mumbled dazedly, tipping his head back to stare at the night sky. The sky was dark, a midnight black like the nozzle. He didn’t know why he thought of the gas pump, but now he was thinking about black cocks and stars and thinking about the night his friend had showed him ‘white twink boy fucked by big cock’ on the internet and now he was thinking if that was why he had turned gay. It’s funny how many delightful memories the night sky brought back. “Buttsex.” He said again, with an affirmative nod, as if it was some philosophy that made lucid sense.

The pump jiggled in his hand with finality and he realized how sex deprived he had been lately.  
With a befuddled sigh, he screwed the lid back on the gallon and started to lug it to the shop. It was a small Grab-n-Go, a worn down place and the neon blue sign was missing a few bulbs, leaving it at a flickering, ‘G a G’. Louis snorted and stared at it for a while, the blue light fluorescent against the midnight-black-cock sky. “Fuck you.” He grumbled, before he quickly corrected it to a silent, “Fuck me.” As he entered the shop. The bell on the door tingled and he winced, shutting the door at the exaggerated noise.

Louis set the gallon down by the door and stared at the clock on the wall—it’s numbers were backwards so he couldn’t tell the time, and instead of a chocolate bar rack there was a rack of pink frilly panties and dildos. He scrunched up his nose, wondering when Grab-n-Go’s sold sex toys, but didn’t question it. It was a crazy fucking world and he was crazy fucking drunk.

The boy at the register was fiddling with a vintage walkman, a clunky pair of headphones over his ears as he pressed play, pause, rewind, play, pause, fast forward, his nimble fingers moving to-and-fro absently. Louis approached the counter, his steps misplaced and slurred, watching the clerk with the nimble fingers and stone ages iPod. He stood there for a long time, his eyes following his fingers. Left, right, up, down, right, left, down, up, and soon, in, out, in, out, scissor, in, out, in, out—fuck, Louis was biting his lip.

There were voices echoing inside his swimming head, deep voices doing dips and turns and dives, saying nonsense for a moment before he could understand.  
“Do you need me?” They said slowly, before warping into, “Do you need something?”

Louis blinked and straightened, realizing his mouth had been open and he was still staring at the walkman--his hands were gone now, the pause button pressed down like a footstep on a stairwell.

Louis’ gaze swept up to meet a pair of green--green didn’t even seem to describe them--eyes. They were round in the lad’s face, set warmly against his milky skin, framed with dark, thick lashes that Louis suddenly wanted to feel flutter against his cheek.

“Gas money,” Louis slurred, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a handful of dollars, before he tossed them on the counter, turning to walk out. Before he could get far, he was tugged back, the feeling of warm fingers against the back of his neck. The clerk’s fingers were curled around the collar of his coat and Louis would have called him out for touching property that wasn’t his if he wasn’t drunk.

“These are… Monopoly dollars, sweetie.”

 

When the clerk let go of him, Louis turned around to see the tall boy holding out the handful of colorful moneys with a bored expression, as if this happened to him often. Louis felt offended for a brief moment, because surely rich, hot babes (himself) did not stop by this dank joint often. If he wasn’t going o take advantage, Louis was going to take his rain and leave.

The clerk peered down at Louis through his thick lashes, and Louis watched his tongue flick out over his maraschino lips.

“’Nopoly?” Louis questioned; he looked down at the worker’s fist and studied the green bills he held out. They were tens, as far as he could see. What did he think he was, stupid? Monopoly dollars could only buy avenues and houses, not gas.

“Monopoly dollars.” He nodded, his dangerous lips forming and enunciating the words at the slowest rate possible, but Louis found it enticing; how his red mouth curled and quirked, before setting in a plump line. It was as if he was wearing lipstick, or something, they were so fucking red, really.  
The boy’s (man’s?) eyebrows raised then, expectantly or impatiently, Louis didn't know. Weren’t they the same thing?

“Listen—“ Louis paused to read his name tag—Bambi? Who the fuck named their kids after a deer? Louis couldn’t blame them, really. He might have had some bohemian hippie shit parents, but he guessed Bambi looked like Bambi. His eyes were round and seemed to carry an incessant clarity that rippled with riches; silver and gold and emerald. Louis decided selflessly that this boy (man??) was wealthier than he was with those god damn green eyes. Jesus, Louis knew there was no fathomable price you could fork over for the minerals that emblazoned the windows to his soul.

“Bambi, I’m not sure who th’fuck you’re tryna fool ‘ere b’swear you’re drunk or sommin.” Louis slurred, holding up his hand and waving it in the air. Bambi seemed briefly affected by Louis’ sudden drunken speech or something.

(he was surprised he’d been called Bambi. It was normally Snow White. He was used to that, honestly, but the teenage boy was more of a princess than he was. He had to be wearing a thong or something under those yoga pants because there was no boxer line or panty line, even. Neither was there a line between his hand and that ass but Harry restrained himself.)

“I’m drunk?” Harry echoed, the stench of the customer’s potent alcoholic breath strong enough to burn his nose hairs. He didn’t look older than sixteen, really. He was short and soft looking, pink cheeked with thin lips to match and hair that swept above his brow and curled behind his ears. The color reminded him of a morning coffee he should be having right now.

“You’re drunk.” He told him, in case he wasn’t aware, and the customer looked like this was news, blinking owlishly up (yes, up) at the clerk. He looked like a hedgehog, he realized.

“I just wanna go home,” he mumbled, reaching forward to curl the clerk’s long fingers around his money. He didn’t really want to go home – not when Dan was there, or possibly even Nick. His eyes stung and he blinked, staring at him hopefully. “Wanna shower and sleep—please.”

The tall boy-man watched Louis practically fold over the counter, cheek pressed against the cold surface, his eyelashes fluttering in some sort of exhaustion, drunken or bone deep. For some reason, he felt it was the latter and he knew that no one would be taking him home. He couldn’t drive intoxicated, either, and as he watched Louis’ eyes flutter shut, a strange swoop of obligation and fondness softened him up.

Bambi slipped his walkman in the pocket of his coat, which was hung on the wall, before he plucked it off the hook. “Let’s get you home,” He decided finally, snatching his keys up as well. “D’you want to go home?”

Louis seemed to become alert then, straightening quickly with a water sound that laid along the lines of a helpless whimper and a strangled groan. “I don’t want to.” He said, his tone small. “Not tonight… I’ll find a hotel,” he mumbled, wrapping his bomber jacket around his small body. Bambi frowned, striding out from behind the counter. Louis looked him down uneasily, following his endless limbs until they tucked into a pair of sleek black doc martens. Louis realized he was one of those boys.

“How old are you?” He asked, shrugging on his coat, his green eyes casting a glance at the clock mounted on the wall.  
Louis held up his fingers, counted on them for a quiet moment. “Seventeen.”

“Yeah, m’taking you home.” He said, stuffing his monopoly money in his pocket, before covering the mileage from the counter to the door in three strides. He looked like he didn’t know how to control his legs, a subtle wobble in his amble steps. He really was Bambi, wasn’t he?

Louis was quiet a minute, before he felt tears swell in his eyes. “But I don’t wanna go home,” He slurred childishly, sitting on the floor. He pulled his knees up and tucked them against his chest, thighs pressed against his stomach. If he went home he wouldn’t find any sense of relief that he’d been searching for. He just wanted to be by himself, wanted to find a bed and sleep forever. “Don’t take me, Bambi, don’t take me!”

“It’s not—“ he paused, watching him fold easily into a fetal position on the filthy floor of the shop, his hair like a misplaced halo over his eyes. “How about I take you to mine?”

He was sure he didn’t sound very sure of himself, but the kid needed a place to go or he’d get himself killed. “Brew some coffee?”  
Louis wavered on the offer. He didn’t even like coffee, but it sounded good right now and it reminded him much of the color of the boy’s hair. He remained on the floor, hands in his lap. 

“I wanna throw up.” He mumbled, shuffling forward. His stomach sloshed with alcohol and he could see a proper scolding from his kidney in the near future. He brought himself to his feet, wobbling as if he’d never worked a pair of limbs before. They belied him evilly, sending him forward to collapse face first into the clerk’s broad chest. He smelled of pumpkin spice and cigarettes. Louis wondered if he decorated his house for thanksgiving. 

“Not on me--” Harry laughed nervously, bracing Louis by his shoulders, his fingers pressing into his soft skin. “Come on, Niall’ll take shift in ten. No one comes here, anyway.” 

Louis tried to remember what he’d been taught about strangers but his thoughts were far too muddled and the guy was hot, too hot to be gay, probably, but Louis knew he was cute and could probably change that, with an ass to kill and lips sweet enough to give you diabetes, if that was a good thing. 

(He wasn’t entirely sure about the lips part--sure he’d slept around a few times and kissed a few blokes but they never felt placed right, like he was wearing a left shoe on his right foot or like he was sitting on the saddle wrong. He didn’t know what it was, but he had yet to experience a kiss that was proper. Did that make sense?)

Louis remained pressed against him, finding himself inhaling monstrous gulps of his scent. He smelled fresh, clean, and hot, his chest warm through the fabric of his jumper and Louis wondered, why buy beds when you can have a gas station clerk to sleep on? 

“Love?” He pulled him upright. “Are you dead?” 

Louis blinked tiredly, wrapping his arms around him. “Mmm. If I were dead would’ja carry me?” 

“...Probably?”

“M’dead, then. C’mon, bro, carry me.” 

He snorted and slid his arms down Louis’ body, wrapping them firmly around his waist. “Jump on up, then, Dracula.”

Louis pulled back a moment. “Dracula?” 

Harry blushed. “I mean, you said you were-- And Dracula-- I just-- I mean--”

“You do talk some shit.” Louis mumbled, “For a deer, at least.”

The clerk scoffed, lifting Louis up and into his arms easily. Louis didn’t weigh much. He consisted of flesh, bones, and vodka, mostly. Occasionally bibble or cum, but that was on good days. 

As the clerk walked out, one abnormally large hand pressed in the fleshy spot between Louis’ shoulderblades, the cold wrapped around him and he pressed up closer to him. “Are you always this nice to people?” He mumbled, blood buzzing in his veins. The moon shimmered with glitter, the man carried him shimmered with glitter, his milky skin highlighted so terribly beautifully that Louis found himself encaptured, entranced, even, in his picturesque profile. He was delicate, yet brusque, a perfect mixture of the two with a strong jaw and long, dark eyelashes.   
He waited a long moment, breath puffing out in small clouds of smoke. “If you’re going to be a person, might as well do it right.” He said, but Louis didn’t really know   
what it meant, so he stared at him very quietly and admired what he was like. 

“But then you die,” Louis pointed out softly, letting Harry sit him in the back seat of his car. It was a black pick up, the outside of the bed covered in bumper stickers for various bands, stickers with witty and sarcastic remarks. “Everything happens and then you die.”

“Don’t you think you should make the best of it?” Inquired Bambi, perching himself right beside Louis. He didn’t protests—he was warm and broad and comfortable. “Don’t you think that, since you’ve only got one shot, you should try to make it worthy?”  
Louis tucked his knees against his chest, worried at his bottom lip. “What is there to make it worthy for? S’not like you’ll remember everything after you’re fucking maggots.” He reasoned, voice still quiet and intoxicated.

“You don’t believe in the afterlife?” He said, as if everyone did, but he looked serious about this, lips in a red line.  
Louis had to think about that for a moment. He never really had a religion, he guessed he believed in heaven, and his mom took him to church sometimes because she thought he might take interest in the pastor’s daughter; thought that a holy young lady would turn an unholy young (very much gay) boy pure. Louis always knew she was wrong, always knew that the tainted could never become pure again. Especially after all that he’d been through. Sure, he believed in the afterlife. But he decided he wasn’t going to get one. He didn’t deserve one.

“I suppose,” he said, leaning over to close the door after the windows had begun to mist with their warm breath. “I suppose there’s somewhere all of these people’ve got to go after. What’s the point, really?”

“The point of what?”

“Of creating a race and leaving them to fade after a while, just watching the people come in and out.”He replied meditatively, turning to really look at him in the dark of early morning. The silver moon cascaded over his cheek bones, reflected in his eyes like a perfect mirror. “Isn’t it all cruel?”  
“It’s not that he’s cruel—“

“He? You believe in god, too?”

“There’s got to be somebody, hasn’t there?”

“They make him like some great big brother in the sky who saves lives and packs your fuckin’ lunch and blesses your soul ‘nd shit. I’m not having it, it’s a bunch of bull, really. I think he puts people here just to watch them suffer, y’know? No matter how much you pray, he’s not listening. Maybe satan runs the world.” Louis told him, letting his numb tongue stumble upon his words and pour out like an emptying bottle of tequila, dribbling down his chin bitterly. He didn’t know what he was saying, but he felt sick and wanted to sleep, didn’t want to talk about some guy who sat his ass in the clouds and let people go through what they went through without lifting a finger.

He was quiet for a while, the guy to his right. He sat with his long fingers knotted in his lap and stared at the windshield as if it had his script, a dimple in his brow. “I mean, if you put it that way.” He said. It sounded flat, no volume, and Louis knew somehow that the conversation was coming to an end, the tequila spilled in front of them, foggy silence between them as they decided who was to clean it up and who was to buy another bottle. Louis wanted to throw up.

“Can we go now?” He whispered, voice unsure.

He jumped, his long eyelashes fluttering and maybe it was the alcohol but Louis was sure he saw flecks of gold float from them like some bizarre vampire fairy shit. “Ah—right, yeah. By the way, I never learned your name, mate.”

His slow voice lulled Louis so, his eyelids drooping dazedly.”Louis, I think.” He mumbled, wrapping his arms around himself. “Yeah.”

He didn’t question it, just smiled and crawled over the center console to the front. “M’Harry.” He said, “But if you insist, you can call me Bambi, too. Don’t mind it.”  
Louis smiled at that. Harry. It suited him well, a cliché name for a cliché sort of guy. Dreamy, prince like, came to rescue the damsel in distress. What more could you ask for?  
But Bambi suited him better. Definitely.

“Alright, Bambi.”


End file.
